Flotsam

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 94, 12 July 1927, Page 16

Flotsam

By

Coralie Stanton and Heath Hosken.

Aathora of “ The Real Mr a. Dare/ 9 " The Man She Never Married “ Sword and Plough," &c., £rc.

To have Flotsam, i.e., goods floating on the water; Jetsam, i.e., goods cast out of a ship during a storm, and Wilsam, i.e., goods driven ashore when ships are wrecked. These wrecks were called by the vulgar. Goods of God’s mercy. (Ancient Charter of Dover.)

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.—John Bolton kneels on the shingle beside the animate form of a lad who has just been rescued from drowning. The sailor who has brought the boy from the shipwreck can give no information about him. Later, inquiries proving futile, John Bolton carries the lad to his motor, covers him with rugs, and drives off. The boy refuses the stimulating drink that John offers, and wants to go. This request is refused. Questioned the lad states that he is Jack King. He and his father were bound for South America. Complains of feeling sick and collapses. Arrived at Saye Castle, John Bolton’s home, Mrs. Manton, the housekeeper, undertakes to get the boy to bed, but he fights, kicks, bites, struggles and makes off. John Bolton catches him and he capitulates by fainting. Pie is got to bed and Dr. Goring is sent for. About six in the evening Mrs. Manton seeks her master and informs him that Jack King is a girl—a young woman about eighteen. Dr. Goring says the patient must be kept perfectly quiet for a few days. John Bolton communicates with the steamship offices in London, Scotland Yard tells a sordid story. The girl’s father is really Michael Dennis Croft, company promoter, whose gigantic failure has engulfed the savings of millions of hard workers. His daughter, Jacqueline, is penniless. CHAPTERS I. (Continued) and IT.— John Bolton writes to his fiancee, Lady Maud Genge, tells the whole story of Jacqueline, and asks her to help him. He has his first interview with Jacqueline. She reveals herself as a strikinglooking girl, full of character. She has taken the news of her father's death quietly. Lady Maud Genge, in the Swiss mountains, reads In the paper of th“ death of Dennis Croft. She talks it over with her maid. Clarice. Later she muses over her past life, her runaway marriage, her divorce, her father’s accession to the peerage. A letter comes to her from John Bolton, telling her the history of the arrival of Jacqueline and expressing a wish for her presence and advice. Lady Maud gives her maid orders to pack. She is returning to England. She spends the night at Folkestone after crossing the Channel, and in the morning hires a car and motors to Saye Castle. John Bolton is not there to meet her, but Parker, the butler, and Mrs. Manton, welcome her. The housekeeper gives her the latest news of the new protegee, and says how fond the master is of her. CHAPTER lll.—(Continued). Luncheon was a great strain on Maud. She felt that it had added twenty years to her appearance and very nearly brought about a nervous breakdown. The girl would hardly utter a word. Maud talked; but she could not talk for ever. There were

awful silences, blank pauses that seemed interminable. At last Maud could stand it no longer. She must break through this icy wall of restraint or she felt she would scream.

“Are you going to be down here long?” she asked, after one of those long embarrassing silences. The girl gave Maud a swift look, half of fear. “I’m not quite sure,” she answered. “It depends on several things. I —oh, I’d rather not talk about myself, if you don’t mind.” “Why, of course not. my dear,” said Maud reassuringly. “Let’s talk about John, instead ” “Mr. Bolton?”

“Yes, Mr. Bolton, if you like.” Then Maud took another plunge. “Of course, you know that I am going to marry Mr. Bolton in the autumn.”

“Yes, he told me. But, somehow or other, I did not picture you quite like you are. I’ve seen your photographs —Mr. Bolton showed them to me. You aren’t a bit like the photograhps. I should never have known you.” “Those photographs flatter one so,” laughed Maud, though she felt like anything but laughter. The dart went home. She knew she ,was looking rotten. No woman could be expected to look anything but a fright under those conditions. Little cat! Oh to be young again!

“It isn’t that,” said Jacqueline, turning those strange yellow, tiger eyes on Maud in frank and unabashed admiration. “The photographs don’t flatter you. Good Heavens, no! You are so much more, so infinitely more beautiful than the photographs and so much younger. I —l didn’t know you were so young.”

That did it. What woman of forty could be unmoved by that? She loved Jacqueline from that instant.

“You dear,” she said. “What a nice thing to say, even if you are flattering a woman old enough to be your mother.”

“Old enough to be my mother! Do you know I’m eighteen next birthday.” And so the ice was broken. Thenceforth it was more or less plain sailing. The morose, shy and reticent Jacqueline became if not communicative at least friendly. It was Maud who was a little silent, a little pensive. Surely never had there been such a meeting between mother and daughter.

They had a pleasant lunch together and Jacqueline chattered away quite naturally about everything and everybody that did not matter. She revealed herself as a well read and widely travelled girl, who had absorbed things and not passed them by after the manner of youth. Maud discovered, too, that she spoke languages. Her French and German were to the manner born; she also spoke Italian and Spanish very much better than Maud, who prided herself on being a supercosmopolite.

They talked of Paris, and Madrid and Constantinople, and Copenhagen and Menton*' and Ventnor. They revelled in ions and reminiscences. The girl w’vi r rutally frank and truthful. There was no deceit or pose about her, no pretence. Maud liked her outspoken direct, hammer-and -tongs manner; nevertheless she realised that this young woman had a very appealing personality. She could visualise men making spectacular fools of themselves over Miss Jack. She could even make allowances for John, though that rather frightened her. After all was said and done, one could not afford risks at her time of life. After lunch they sat in the garden and talked horticulture and Christian Science, and any old thing. They got on very well together. When she wanted to, and she generally did, Maud got on well with everybody. She particularly wanted to get on well with Miss Jack. And she succeeded.

They took a walk with the dogs; they had tea in the rose garden, they paid a visit to the stables and put on the loud speaker and listened in to the London Broadcast programme. By five o’clock they had become friends. It was then that Bolton arrived and quite naturally, as a matter of course, joined in their general conversation and amity.

It appeared that Parker had telephoned him at his London Club according to instructions, and he had motored down at once. So here he was. And here was Maud. And here was poor little Miss Jack. It was just as she wanted it. It was altogether fortuitous. Now everything would be settled without any further trouble. If there was anything on earth Bolton hated above anything else it was trouble. He wanted things settled one way or another at once. Which way mattered little to him, so long as the thing was settled. He was smug and contented, and noticed with satisfaction that the two girls—girls he regarded them both — were on such good terms with each other.

Maud, it must be said, noted, with her greater experience of life, that Bolton appeared to be much more pleased to see Miss Jack than he was to see her. She would have scorned to attribute this observation to jealousy. She refused to be jealous of Miss Jack. The idea was preposterous. A chit of a child! Her own daughter! They had tea and delightful cakes and peaches and plums and other delicious things. Miss Jack and Bolton ate ravenously. Maud hardly touched a thing.

Bolton was sublimely content. He was awfully pleased at seeing Maud and thought she was looking splendid. Never better! And God bless her for

this pleasant surprise. She was a brick and all that—a real sport, by gad, she was. Fancy busting up her Swiss arrangements like this just when one most wanted to breathe the pure Alpine air from the top of the Schreckliorn or the Ttighi, or Monte Rosa— Bolton was very vague about the alps. His experience of them had consisted principally in rushing through them in express trains by means of tunnels. “You dear old thing!” he said and beamed love and devotion upon her from his honest eyes. She felt reassured.

"And how’s the little Miss Jack?” he inquired whimsically and launched forth a fleet of pleasantries.

Miss Jack who had been somewhat wistful and aloof suddenly awakened into life and interest; colour came into her cheeks and she sat up, as it were, and took notice. It was so obvious that she was pleased and there was something in her eyes of the pleasure of a child being taken notice of, the gratitude of a dog on being patted. Maud noticed these things and registered them on the tablets of her memory and her heart heardened.

So it was like this, was it? So it was to be a duel between them—a fight to the death if it should be necessary. Well, so it should be. One only lived once—who could tell what would happen afterwards? And she was twice this girl’s age. She was her mother! Yes, Miss Jack had the advantage of a long start and Maud was carrying too much weight. Never mind —the race was not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. She rose unexpectedly and beamed upon them both. “I really must be going,” she said. “Going? Nonsense,” cried Bolton. “What an idea! I’ve got heaps of things to tell you. Y'ou’ll stay to dinner at any rate.”

“No, my dear, I must get back.” She observed that Miss Jack looked not a little relieved. The girl was so transparent. But she knew how to play her cards. She would leave them together with the hollyhocks and the red-hot pokers, and the sweet peas. If John wanted her he knew where to find her. If he didn’t —well, she knew where she would be, where she was. Flee and he’ll follow. Seek and he’ll flee. John was greatly disturbed. He protested and pleaded. Miss Jack standing in the background, observing and most discreet. “You know where I’m staying,” said Maud as she stepped into her hired car. “If you’ve nothing better to do you can come over and have dinner with me.” “Of course, I will,” he said. “What time?” “Eightish.” “Good.” “And bring Miss Jack —you’ll come, won’t you, dear?” She beamed upon the girl. “If you don’t mind. Lady Maud,” she said. “I’d rather not. I’ve got no clothes or anything, and I’m feeling perfectly rotten ” “Oh, but you must,” protested Bolton. “I insist!” Miss Jack shook her head and smiled a little pathetically as if to say: “You go, don’t mind me.” And Maud drove off with a dazzling smile, waving her hand. “Anyhow, one of you will come. Au revoir.” One of them did come, and that one was John Bolton. CHAPTER IV. It was not until they were taking their coffee in the great lounge hall after dinner that the subject uppermost in both their minds was mentioned. They had so much to talk about. Their little dinner a deux was a very pleasant and intimate affair. Maud thought John was altogether adorable, and looked handsomer than ever, and the prospect of soon becoming his wife was increasingly attractive. And Bolton thought Maud the finest woman in the world, so understanding, so sympathetic, so sound and dependable. She was like an old and trusted friend. He thrilled at the thought that she belonged to him, that she was soon to be the mistress of his heart and his possessions. Life held great promise, and the years ahead would be paradise.

“Now,” said John, when liis cigar was smoking to his satisfaction, “what are we going to do about little Miss Jack?” • It came just like that when Maud was wondering whether she ought to tell Clarice to go to bed. “Well, what about Miss Jack?” she said in a matter of fact voice. “You know all the circumstances?” “I got your letter which was pretty explicit.” “And j’ou’ve seen the child?” “Yes. I’ve spent most of the day with the child, as you call her. She seems to me quite a little woman of the world and altogether charming.” “And she has told you all about herself?” “Not a word. Why should she?” “Oh, I don’t know. Only somehow or other when I found you two together, 1 thought you had come together, don’t you know, come to understand each other, I thought she had told you her story—a terribly sad story. Maud dear, a. tragedy.” “I know. You told me all about it in your letter. But, really John dear, it has nothing to do with you. or with me. It’s very sad and all that; but surely you can’t expect me to be particularly interested.” “But why not?” He looked dismayed and puzzled. “Surely little Miss Jack is the most interesting problem that could possibly present itself. Here you have a homeless, helpless chit of a girl washed up by the sea at your very door, so to speak. No father, no mother, no relatives, just a bit of flotsam thrown on the beach after a big storm. What is to be done about it. Maud? I confess lam most frightfully worried. I want your advice. ’Pon my soul I don’t know what to do. You see. her father ” “You told me all about her father in your letter,” she interrupted. “Don’t go over it all again. I remember everything of the whole history, and of course I’m tremendously sorry for the poor girl. And I think you’ve been jolly good to her. I’m sure I don’t know any other man who would have put himself to all the trouble you have over a complete stranger.” (To be Continued.)